


Five Colours Antoinette And Anastasia Wear Well Together

by moonix



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:22:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/pseuds/moonix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and one they don't. Written for nerakrose for the festivebastion exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Colours Antoinette And Anastasia Wear Well Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nerakrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerakrose/gifts).



> Dear Karen, all of your prompts were very tempting to me, but I decided to go with the ladies this time as I'd never written about them before. I hope they came out to your liking. Happy festive bastion!
> 
> A little note: part two contains a tiny bit of talk about menstruation. While I am all for discussing this subject more openly, I just want to put a little heads-up here for anyone who might be struggling with this subject.
> 
> As far as I can tell, there are no obvious triggery things in this story.

**1 Airman Blue**

Of course, anything connected to Volstov's magnificent Dragon Corps is all the rage nowadays, Anastasia would know this even if she didn't have various advisers, tailors and well-meaners to keep her updated on every little trend and fad in the capital. The precise shade of blue that the airmen's uniforms come in is different from the Ke'Han blue, which is like the slick ice blue of the Cobalt mountains, or at least that is what Anastasia has been told, never having seen the Cobalts for herself. Airman blue, the colour everyone is donning in favour of the more traditional Volstovic red now, is a more robust, almost indigo blue, like someone has diluted a hint of the old red in it, a subtle appropriation of the enemy's colour that Anastasia has never been entirely comfortable with, but she indulges it, because she must.

“It suits you,” Antoinette tells her, tying ribbons into Anastasia's hair that look like the Airman Rook's dyed blue braids. Anastasia watches the process in her mirror, a tiny snick of a frown folded in between her eyebrows, and smooths over her fur-trimmed blue robe. Antoinette is wearing the same colour, a sleek dress with gold epaulettes and a plunging neckline, simple and elegant, and Anastasia swishes her elaborate skirt under the dressing table and sighs.

“How do you feel?” Antoinette asks, finishing with the ribbons.

“Like a wedding cake with too much marzipan,” Anastasia sniffs. “I don't like the ribbons.”

“I'll take them out again,” Antoinette murmurs, amused, and gets back to work. Anastasia's hair comes loose again, trailing in wispy strands around her face like dust motes swirling in the air.

“How about tied back, all fierce and no-nonsense?” Antoinette suggests, her fingertips cool on Anastasia's scalp.

“Yes,” Anastasia decides, “please. Simple and clean.”

Antoinette combs out her hair until it is shiny again, then dips her finger in one of the various pots assembled on the dressing table like jam jars glimmering in the light. She rubs the paste between her hands, then smooths her palms along the sides of Anastasia's head, pulling her hair back taut; twisting and folding and shaping until it looks like it is being held up with magic and Anastasia feels like she can breathe again.

“This is better,” she says, “thank you.”

The Lady Antoinette has many talents beside her Talent, and Anastasia enjoys making use of them these days. It is less solitary than with the maids assigned to her, who aren't allowed to speak to her except on the subject of her appearance, and Anastasia finds the skilled touch of Antoinette's hands on her head grounding in these moments, even more so than the reprieve of a silent room just before stepping outside into the noise and bustle of the ball.

“It is a pity you will have to walk with your husband,” Antoinette says, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes that mirrors the highlights on her epaulettes. “He always looks so very pale in red. You are better matched with me tonight.”

_Just tonight?_ Anastasia almost asks, a giddy feeling in her chest, like she used to get as a child when she did things like skipping instead of walking and giggling instead of staying quiet. She keeps herself in check, though, and Antoinette holds out her arm.

“Shall we?”

 

**2 Volstovic Red**

The rule is that when Esarina Anastasia faints, no men are to touch her, not even her husband.

Anastasia implemented this rule herself, after one too many overenthusiastic incidents that left well-meaning but ultimately still painful bruises on her arms. Her husband protests, but, as he is wont to do, humours her in the end, not least because he knows by now that Anastasia does not require help in regaining consciousness. She wears her corsets tight, but the fainting already began with her first menstruation, and despite Antoinette's subtle attempts at bringing looser corsets back into fashion and the various herbalists and magicians she has procured to examine her, Anastasia merrily continues to faint on a monthly basis, and has taken to wearing heavy red dresses for the occasion so she doesn't offend the delicate sensibilities of the noblemen and diplomats her husband keeps around with her unseemly blood stains.

“I see you are in patriotic spirits, my lady,” says Antoinette when Anastasia opens her eyes. The men stand in consternated stillness around the ungainly heap that their Esarina has transformed into, but they heed the rule, and Anastasia smiles and murmurs “aren't I always” before letting Antoinette help her to her feet.

Antoinette is wearing a black dress with a fitted lace top that looks like it has been woven directly onto her skin. It is the same patriotic colour as Anastasia's flowing dress, but it stands out somewhat less starkly against her dark skin and the black silk underneath, compared to Anastasia's blue-veined pallor.

“My lord,” Antoinette says to Nico, her face blank but her tone almost cheeky, once Anastasia has finished gathering up her ruffles and her dignity. “Allow me to borrow your wife for a moment and restore her to her usual splendour.”

Nico gives an uninspired wave, a taut look around his eyes, already far away with his thoughts, casting them out toward the war like fishing rods. Antoinette takes this as permission and gently leads Anastasia out of the room and onto a nearby settee in one of Anastasia's coveted quiet alcoves.

“How do you feel?”

Anastasia makes a non-committal gesture and cradles her hands in her lap, one wrapped around the other, fingertips counting the miniature buttons that march up the sides of her red gloves.

“You knew,” she says with a glance at Antoinette's matching red lace bodice. Antoinette's earrings cascade with a tinkle over the tops of her shoulders as she moves her head. They are long, heavy and intricate, ancient Ramanthine jewellery, if Anastasia isn't much mistaken.

“Our cycles are in sync, my lady,” Antoinette reminds her, the corners of her lips turned down in one of those twisty amused smiles that should not be smiles but are. “I always know because I get mine at the same time.”

Once, many years ago, Anastasia asked her friend if menstruating women were more susceptible to velikaia magic, seeing as it required blood to work, and there is always so much blood for Anastasia. Sometimes she feels like she is bleeding for a whole country. Antoinette smiled that very same impish smile then, and explained that her magic was a violation of the mind and thus required a violation of the body, which menstruation wasn't. If anything, the women were often the harder to work her magic on; though, of course, everyone was unique in how they responded to the invasion.

Anastasia wonders dimly how she would hold up against such a violation of her mind.

Antoinette is not allowed to use her powers on the royal family, of course, and Anastasia isn't going to ask. She does not need the question answered of whether she would, perhaps, enjoy it.

“How do you feel?” Antoinette asks her again. She does not touch her, for which Anastasia is grateful; she has always been sensitive, always worn gloves to protect her bare skin.

“Like a big, patriotically ornamental pouffe,” Anastasia mutters, rearranging the folds of her skirt. What she feels is bloated and tired and hungry, but there have been worse days, and it is a comfort to her that she is not alone in this: Antoinette and who knows how many other citizens of Volstov are experiencing the same thing right now, their menstrual cycles curiously aligned with that of their Esarina. Antoinette laughs, and Anastasia abruptly craves the sort of smoky, buttered tea that her husband drinks, not the delicate, flowery brews that Antoinette favours and that the Volstovic tea blenders so often dedicate to Anastasia instead, unaware that she despises them, because it would be inappropriate for her to pull a face when they serve the new blends of the season.

“You are always patriotic and ornamental, my lady,” Antoinette teases her, “though a pouffe, I protest. Your insides are made of dragon steel, it would be painful to sit on a such a contraption.”

“And you, always charming,” Anastasia says, and holds out her hand for Antoinette to guide her up again. “We are well-matched today.”

“Let us not deprive the noblesse any longer of the view, then,” Antoinette agrees. Anastasia takes her arm, and together they walk back to the dining room, where Nico is stewing over troop movements and everyone is waiting for the Esarina so they can start eating their soup.

 

**3 Festive Gold**

There is a banquet on the eve of the Winter Festival, and Anastasia feels lonely.

None of the people attending are here on her account. It isn't that the Esarina is expressly forbidden from entertaining friendships, but it also isn't encouraged, lest it distract her from her duties. Antoinette is the exception – as she so often is – because she is a fixture in the palace and has made herself indispensable, and because Nico is pleased by the idea that his wife has a companion to keep her happy when he is busy. But today, Antoinette is absent on Margrave duties, and Anastasia picks listlessly at her wild boar ragout, sad because she has no one to tell that she thinks she looks like a tall glass of Arlemagne champagne in her fizzy, pale gold dress.

After dinner, the capital's finest tea blenders present their newest creations for the winter, as is the custom: a procession of gleaming silver samovars, stately and serious shapes on the small gilded tables that hold them, breathing fresh steam that fills the dining hall with their different fragrances. This year, there are fourteen blends, each named after one of Volstov's magnificent dragons, and Anastasia sighs when they serve her the one that also bears her own name and the familiar sudsy taste of bergamot makes the inside of her mouth pucker.

“I would recommend the one they call Compassus, my lady,” says a powdery quiet voice next to her ear and Anastasia puts down her cup with a smile. “It tastes like ash and brine, if you ask me, but something tells me that might appeal to you.”

“Antoinette,” Anastasia says warmly, letting her hand be kissed as her friend slides into the seat beside her with a swish of black brocade and golden cuffs and lapels. She is wearing her hair twisted up with gold twine into Basquiat-like spires today, and there is a heavy brooch pinned to her jacket bearing the sigil of her family. “What a nice surprise. I thought you were with your kin.”

“The meeting adjourned a little early,” Antoinette twinkles, “as young Caius Greylace thought it fit to release tigers into our midst, and the lesser Talented among us did not recognise them for what they were right away.”

“Is he with you?” Anastasia asks, a silvery thread of concern shimmering through her earlier tedium. She has been following the troubled rise of the Greylace child at court, and it worries her that people tend to forget so very easily how young he is. Still, it was her husband's choice to take him in, and there is little the Esarina can do about it besides the occasional commissioning of a new exotic animal for their small menagerie, which seems to give the boy a certain degree of calm and joy.

“No, I left him trailing the Margrave Royston who had on a simply outrageous new cloak that he seemed to covet. I believe he wanted to get hold of his tailor's details, so he can harass the unlucky person about a similar thing.”

“Well, you look nice tonight,” Anastasia tells her, and gestures for the server to pour her a cup of the smoking Compassus blend next. It smells like gunfire on a salty ocean breeze, and Anastasia wonders if the Airman Ghislain would approve of it, as she has been told he used to be a sailor before the dragon chose him as her rider.

“So do you, my lady,” Antoinette smiles. “Quite... bubbly.”

Anastasia takes a sip of her tea and is filled with a sudden warmth, down to her fingertips, which tingle pleasantly against the gold-rimmed glass of her cup.

“I knew you would – _appreciate_ the dress,” she says carefully, a smile folded back into the corners of her mouth.

“Don't I always?” Antoinette asks innocently, and avails herself of a cup of _Anastasia_ tea, much to the actual Anastasia's chagrin.

 

**4 Diplomatic Green**

“Are you sure you are quite unharmed?” Antoinette asks for the third time, but by now Anastasia is relatively sure that she's only doing it to tease her, because there is mischief in her eyes like the glimmer of fake gold coins in a game of Monarchy. The board game has become quite popular in Thremedon this year, and Anastasia has amused herself countless afternoons by taking the roles of both herself and her husband, as well as each airman in turn, moving the miniature figurines across the board and playing against and with herself, since Nico has recently asked her to stay away from his consultations and strategy meetings altogether.

“I am quite unharmed,” she now reassures Antoinette, also for the third time. Not even her dress is singed, which Anastasia almost regrets, because it makes her feel rather like a pine tree trussed up with candles and baubles for the Winter Festival.

“Any trouble breathing?” Antoinette checks. The smoke has long cleared, but there remains a charred smell in the corridor outside the room that Antoinette has whisked Anastasia into. Anastasia shakes her head.

“I fear more for the state of our diplomatic affairs,” she tells Antoinette, permitting herself a tiny grimace of concern. “After the last two... incidents, the Arlemagne won't take kindly to a fire breaking out in the middle of our talks.”

Antoinette's mouth twists like she wants badly to say something about _that_ , but she reigns herself in and busies herself with wiping her dark green velvet sleeve over the diamond pattern of tiny mirrors woven into the fabric of Anastasia's skirt to clean away a minor smear of soot. They are both wearing green in honour of their esteemed guests, and once again Anastasia feels that the tailors have done a better job of flattering Antoinette's hourglass body shape than her own stiff cardboard frame.

“The confectioners were too ambitious with the flambéed meringue,” Antoinette finally says, her voice controlled and even like the surface of the mirrors on Anastasia's skirt, “but I think the angel wings – pardon, dragon wings – were received quite well.”

“You think they will forgive us the fiery reception because they enjoyed our pastry?” Anastasia asks, amused, and Antoinette gives her a sharp look.

“Well, we can't really afford to exile another Margrave right now,” Antoinette mutters, “so let's hope they will.”

“It would be a shame, too. I'm quite fond of the Margrave Zefir's desserts when he isn't – flambéing.”

Antoinette raises an eyebrow that looks like the smile she is suppressing has gone up to her forehead to wreak its gentle havoc there instead. Anastasia wants to reach out her hand and smooth it out, and perhaps smudge the perfect black-painted lines around her eyes a bit in the process, because it makes her look so severe. They are caught looking at each other, neither of them able to avert their eyes for a long moment, until Anastasia moves and her dress rustles loudly in the silence, like Chanteur's huffy sigh whenever things aren't proceeding as he would like them to in their talks.

“We should go back,” she whispers, and Antoinette nods.

“Are you sure you are quite unharmed?” she asks again, for the fourth time, and Anastasia has to resist the childish urge to pinch her arm in retaliation.

 

**5 Ceremonial Cream**

After the war, and after all the minor and major disasters that follow, there is a little ceremony wherein Anastasia officially takes over Nico's duties once the new dragons have been moved somewhere safe and the dust and snow has settled again on the spires of the Basquiat. It is a cold morning, the kind that makes joints ache and toes curl in agony even in the warmest boots, and Anastasia wears a fur-lined robe over her ceremonial garments, which are cream with gold and remind her of the sort of gold-speckled vanilla meringue that is all the vogue in the restaurants of Upper Charlotte this year. Her breath hangs in low clouds around her face as she delivers her speech and her vows to serve the country and its people, and she is grateful that Antoinette is the one conducting the ceremony, because she leads them through the procedure swiftly and effortlessly without further ado, unlike certain other Margraves that Anastasia could name. When it is all over, the Basquiat's tea masters serve up a variety of strong smoked blacks and a steaming cauldron full of hot buttered rum in the reception room where the fires are blazing and ornamental rugs cover most of the chilled stone floor. Anastasia is taken aback when they let her add her own choice of cream and half a spoon of dark brown sugar, and sighs with pleasure when she takes the first sip and waits in vain for the soap bubble of bergamot to burst on her tongue.

“Antoinette,” she whispers once she has managed to extricate herself from the well-wishers and the gaggle of self-appointed advisers who all have something to say about the state of the country and what Anastasia should do about it. “A word, if you please.”

“Of course, my lady,” Antoinette murmurs with a curtsy that conveniently hides her smile behind a tumble of dark hair. She follows Anastasia over to an unattended samovar in one of the less crowded corners, and Anastasia points at the large, ornate silver contraption, feeling sweaty now in her fur-lined cloak and gloves.

“Are you responsible for this?” she asks sternly. Antoinette looks perfectly innocent, an impression that should by all means be aided by the demure, cream-coloured dress she is wearing, but somehow, this particular shade just looks playful and naughty contrasted with Antoinette's sleek Ramanthine darks.

“The tea, my lady? I daresay you should question the Margrave Oblong about it, seeing as she is your master blender this year...”

“If this is what she brews, I want her to be my master blender for the rest of my life,” Anastasia allows herself to sigh dreamily. “No bergamot, no rose petals, no jasmine... this is a woman after my heart.”

“Is she, now,” Antoinette mutters, a warm quirk to her lips. “And here I was, thinking you preferred the - floral sort.”

She glances over to where the Margrave Oblong is whisking up a new batch of cardamom whipped cream, her sleeves rolled back, exposing big, sturdy, tattooed underarms. She is the first female master tea blender that Anastasia has had, freshly employed by Antoinette no doubt, along with the rest of Anastasia's new all-female staff – originally an ancient court rule meant to limit those in the Esarina's direct employ to maids, which she and Antoinette have decided to exploit in favour of the half of Thremedon's working population that has been consistently undervalued and overlooked under the previous Esars' rule. So far, Anastasia has been given no cause to regret her decision; quite on the contrary - she has cooks who understand about cyclical cravings, female generals with a head for diplomacy, guards who indulge in harmless gossip rather than offensive jokes, and Margraves that are ambitious in their Talents but don't get sidetracked by petty rivalries and showing off. They have made good choices, and Anastasia hopes that they can serve as positive examples to future generations.

“Floral? No, I like them strong and no-nonsense, as you are well aware,” Anastasia tells Antoinette cheekily, pouring cream into her fresh cup of tea. It blooms up out of the cup's dark brown depths like a cloud of tiny ghost-like mushrooms on a damp forest floor, and she twirls her spoon through them and adds: “Thank you, though. It's been so long since I had a proper cup of tea.”

“I suppose I will have to start looking elsewhere for mine,” Antoinette smiles. “How do you feel now that you are this country's official ruler, Esarina Anastasia?”

“Like a meringue,” Anastasia says promptly, cheerfully.

“It is good to hear that some things never change,” Antoinette says, her eyes twinkling. They are rimmed in gold today, and she has pinned her hair up on one side of her head with a matching gold pin. Already three self-proclaimed artists have eagerly registered their desire to paint a portrait of her kneeling at Anastasia's feet, which Anastasia finds rather offensive, though Antoinette just laughed it off.

“Perhaps we should look into appointing me a new tailor as well,” Anastasia says mournfully and shakes out the ruffles on her skirt. “One who knows how to make dresses that you can actually sit down in.”

“I already have two promising candidates in mind,” Antoinette assures her. “We might also commission a new hat for the Winter Solstice Ball. I hear there is a rather lovely hat shop in the Rue nowadays...”

“I think I know which one you mean,” Anastasia beams and swishes her skirt in excitement. Her gaze falls out of the window behind the samovar, where dark blue clouds are bunched like unloved fabric, and the trees are covered in the skeletal markings of last night's snow. Her heart warms in anticipation of taking over her new duties for this country and all the people going after their business out there in the cold today. Perhaps, if her schedule allows it, she could pay a visit to the Airman Luvander's hat shop herself, or at least invite him here for a cup of tea and some serious discussion of veils and lace and all the other atrocities which the Esarina does not want on her head this year for the Solstice Ball.

“I think that's a darling idea,” she says, and takes Antoinette's elbow to walk her over to the next samovar patiently waiting in line like a gentle, steam-breathing beast. “We should commission two, in fact, one for me and a matching one for you, seeing as we _will_ be walking together this time.”

 

**+1 Pink**

“Oh,” Anastasia says.

Antoinette says nothing. She leans her head to the side, letting her eyes trail over the picture that the two of them make in Anastasia's mirror: her own muted, rosy pink dress with its elaborate cleavage and tiny white ruffles, and Anastasia's sunset pink gown with the elbow gloves, two shades of the same colour, yet worlds apart now that they are actually standing side by side in them. The only things that match are their new hats, hand-delivered by the Airman Luvander just this morning.

“We should, perhaps, have specified what shades of pink our dresses were going to be,” Anastasia says carefully, pursing her lips.

“ _You_ wanted it to be a surprise this time,” Antoinette teases. The Winter Solstice Ball is already in full swing downstairs, and if they don't get going soon, people are going to start gossiping – not that they don't do this already, but Anastasia is loathe to give them anything solid to base their speculations on. She enjoys the mystery, and besides, she is, technically, still married.

“Maybe if I changed the gloves...” Anastasia says, doubtfully, looking down at the shimmery pink fabric that covers most of her arms. Antoinette puts a hand on her shoulder.

“No, I have a better idea,” she whispers.

Suddenly she is in Anastasia's space, familiar and strange at the same time, and Anastasia has barely time to brace herself before Antoinette tucks a small, chaste kiss in the corner of her mouth. Anastasia has always been prone to sunburns and blushing, and so it is no wonder that she can feel her cheeks grow hot now. When she glances at herself in the mirror, her face is the exact shade of Antoinette's dress.

“There,” Antoinette says softly, “now we match again.”


End file.
